


π

by princessofmind



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-27
Updated: 2013-06-27
Packaged: 2017-12-16 08:16:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/859929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessofmind/pseuds/princessofmind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a scent that’s been hardwired into your brain as the smell of Eridan.  The cologne isn’t as popular as something like Polo or Armani, so you’ve never caught a whiff of it walking down the street or sitting at your desk at work.  He’s the only person, as far as you’re concerned, who wears it, and so despite your overwhelming exposure to the scent at home and around him, the effect still hasn’t worn off.  Breathing in the warmth of his skin combined with the heady scent of his cologne still makes your head spin, everything tilting off axis and melting into a gooey puddle on the floor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	π

Eridan is very particular about his cologne.

Someone with as much cash to burn as he does can afford to be, and given his line of work, it’s probably more of an investment than an indulgence. He’s been wearing the same brand since you started dating just over two years ago, something obscure and high end and so heady and mouth-watering that you nearly broke your neck when he walked past you in the supermarket, his looks catching your attention and the scent that followed in a gust as he moved making you crash your cart into a soup can display. (Fortunately, he came to help you, and maybe he took pity on you because of your absolutely starstruck expression, because he slipped his number into your pocket before walking away with his basket full of soy milk and breakfast bars.)

It’s called π, yes, the fucking mathematical constant, and it comes in a weird triangular glass bottle with a needlessly ornate gold top and is a yellow color that makes you think of saffron rice. There are subtle notes of citrus and warm vanilla under what you consider a kind of woodsy musk, and really, you’re no perfume snob, but you’ve become intimately acquainted with every nuance of that triangle bottle and it’s contents. Being as immersed in it as you are, with it clinging to the leather seats in his car, every article of clothing he wears, lingering on the couch cushions and tingling your nose from the coat closet, you’d think it would be a scent you were long since acclimated to. Like those poor teenagers that work at Abercrombie and Fitch who have to get used to having one metric fuckton of cologne and perfume being sprayed around their store every hour on the hour.

But it’s a scent that’s been hardwired into your brain as the smell of Eridan. The cologne isn’t as popular as something like Polo or Armani, so you’ve never caught a whiff of it walking down the street or sitting at your desk at work. He’s the only person, as far as you’re concerned, who wears it, and so despite your overwhelming exposure to the scent at home and around him, the effect still hasn’t worn off. Breathing in the warmth of his skin combined with the heady scent of his cologne still makes your head spin, everything tilting off axis and melting into a gooey puddle on the floor.

You know that he knows how weak at the knees his cologne makes you, and maybe that’s the reason why he’s stuck to the same one for so long, but you know that he’s been wearing it basically since it was released, so maybe your Pavlovian response of ripping his clothes off is just a perk. Either way, he doesn’t object to your obsession with his scent, just laughs and locks you out of the bedroom when he gets ready to leave for work on Friday and Saturday so you don’t come in while he’s misting himself post-shower and make him late.

It’s because of this so called bloodhound ability that you pause in the entryway to the apartment, an awkward little half-hallway that connects your front door to the living room, brow furrowed as he sheds his coat and hangs it in the hall closet, scowling further when he moves close enough to drop a chaste kiss to your lips.

“Did something happen at work?” you ask suspiciously, tucking your hands under your arms as you try not to feel ridiculously underdressed, even though it’s four in the morning and you’re well within your rights to be in your pajamas and he’s the weird one for being clad in sinfully well-fitting jeans and a button-down in the most beautiful deep sapphire.

Dropping his keys in the little dish kept on the table right next to the closet, he arches an eyebrow even as he pushes his glasses up to rub at his eyes. “I mean, nothing really eventful,” he says, carding his fingers through his hair and pushing through his bangs, mussing the meticulously placed purple streak and mixing it with the rest of his chocolate brown hair. “Some guy gave me a bit’a trouble on my way back from my break, but Zahhak “deterred” him from doing much besides get well acquainted with my personal bubble.”

“Damn right he deterred them,” you grumble, because if you weren’t personally acquainted with the biggest, baddest security worker in the establishment, it wouldn’t matter if he was making a million bucks a night, your boyfriend would not be bartending. It’s not paranoia of unfaithfulness that makes you want to be on a first name basis with the bouncers, but rather an awareness that Eridan Ampora is smoking hot and you don’t trust a damn person to keep their hands off him, especially if said person is intoxicated. Honestly, you’d probably be petrified for his safety if he was working anywhere from bagging groceries at Kroger or flanked by secret service on the way to the oval office.

You worry. It’s kind of your MO.

“Really, I’m fine,” he reassures, stance relaxed and loose as you press at his sides push up the cuffs of his shirt. “The guy wasn’t forceful or nothin, just drunk and flirty, and I’m pretty sure he was gonna walk away under his own power before Zahhak fe fi fo fummed his way over and hauled him out by the scruff of the neck.”

Leaning forward, you nose at the collar of his shirt, stomach abruptly twisting and knotting because just like you’d thought, instead of dark vanilla wood, he smells like incense, sharp and smoky and so strong you can practically taste it in your mouth. Sure, sometimes he comes home smelling like liquor, but there’s always that underlying scent, and if you switched to the other side of his collar, you’d probably be able to find it, but that doesn’t matter.

He must think you're being the flirty one, because he's nipping at your ear through the fringe of your hair, teeth lingering against the skin in a way that usually turns your legs to jelly, but all your brain can latch onto is the fact that he doesn't smell like Eridan. Some unknown guy came up to him at work and leaned on him enough to rub his scent all over him, and the absence of wood and presence of spice is what sets off some primal part of your brain, not the fact that this stranger touched him. It's the fact that he left a noticeable mark on him that has fire running in your veins, singing up your spine and tangling your brain.

The table bangs when you shove him against the wall, one hand braced on the white painted drywall and the other tangled in his hair to pull his head down far enough for you to capture his lips in a bruising kiss. His mouth parts easily for your tongue, and he tastes like Altoids from the container in his car, spicy and warm and tantalizing. Both his hands are caught in the material of your shirt, and his body slides down the wall a couple inches to put him at a more comfortable kissing height, making it so much easier to stroke the roof of his mouth with your tongue as you grind him hard against the unyielding surface at his back.

He moans as you start tearing at his shirt, the once beautiful blue now nothing but a foul smelling obstacle, giving up on the buttons before you really even try and just tearing the damn thing right down the middle, the soft clatter of the round plastic hitting the wood almost drowned out the sound that he makes, like you're killing him, back arched and neck bared wantingly. Fuck, you can feel how hard he is already, just from this, and it has you sucking bruises onto his neck; large, angry, noticeable things like you were teenagers necking in high school. Even his collared shirts won't hide the highest of the marks, but it just makes him writhe, pulling you closer to him as he wraps a leg around your waist, face the picture of ecstasy as you take advantage of his curved spine and roughly strip the fabric off and toss it as far away as you can manage.

His undershirt smells right, thank god, because the white material is already clinging to his sweaty skin and that's such a pretty picture that you can't be assed to take it off. You're both almost entirely clothed, and all you've done is mark up his neck and ruin one of his shirts, but he's rubbing against your erection like he's down your fucking throat. Hitching him a bit higher against the wall puts him at a better angle to roll your hips, really push him against the hard surface with enough force to have him tightening his leg around your waist, fingernails scrabbling uselessly at your back through your t-shirt as he pants for breath.

Fuck anyone who thinks they can ever see him like this. You're the only person to witness his pale skin flushed such a beautiful red, his hair falling and sticking to his face in inelegant, sweaty clumps as he braces one hand over his own head, the other sliding up the knobs of your spine to grip tightly at your hair. One of your hands is still on the wall, close enough to his face to feel the hot puffs of his breathing as he pants, the other slipping around to grab the collar of his undershirt, dragging it aside to lick a broad stripe over his skin, inhaling audibly as you go, and he flips out.

It's like trying to pin a fish, and he would successfully dislodge you if he didn't have a hand tugging painfully at your hair as he bucks against you, grinding your erections together as he whines and whimpers and moans and straight up yells because fuck is he noisy when he comes. You can smell the deep, vanilla woods on his skin, and the way his body is trembling underneath yours triggers your own orgasm as you rock against his hip, able to retain your higher brain functions enough to know that you don't want to hurt him while he's still jerking sporadically against your body, eyes pleasure glazed behind his crooked lenses.

Your legs give out, and it's your weight pinning him to the wall that keeps you from falling on your ass. Instead, the two of you kind of slide down to the floor where you end up mostly in his lap, both of you still working to catch your breath. He speaks first, completely limp against the drywall as he looks at you with a surprising amount of heat considering you just tried to fuck him into the next apartment with your clothes still on.

"That was so fucking hot," he groans, an unashamed, blissed out grin on his face that makes you flush all the way down the back of your neck. "Please, please let this become standard operatin' procedure when I get hit on at work."

Tenderly, you kiss at one of the bruises on his neck, the skin feeling warm under your lips, and it makes him sigh contentedly and start stroking your hair. He smells normal again, like the Eridan who does his class work in your pajamas and can only cook macaroni out of a box. Like _your_ Eridan. "I could probably arrange that," you grumble, and he makes a soft, pleased noise before pulling you more fully into his lap and against his chest, seemingly unwavering in the face of the death sentence he just put upon his own wardrobe.


End file.
